


This Would Be a Good Time for Plan B

by astro_noms



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Genderswap, M/M, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2006-03-19
Updated: 2006-10-09
Packaged: 2017-10-09 02:14:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astro_noms/pseuds/astro_noms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I happen to be very comfortable with my body, Sammy, and it's unfair of you to behave like a member of the oppressive patriarchy just because you're uncomfortable with my vagina."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This Would Be a Good Time for Plan B

Sam wakes up to the sound of someone banging on his front door in the middle of the night. Given that it's about three am, and he's got a six am conference with a client on the East Coast, he's understandably upset. But his anger quickly changes into confusion when he opens the door and sees the tall leggy blonde, her long hair plastered to her face with rainwater. That's when he realizes she's almost completely soaked, her jeans dark with water and the too-large leather jacket she's huddled into stiffening where it's starting to dry out.

"Can I... can I help you?"

"Dude," she says, glaring at him from under her bangs, green eyes flashing even in the dim light of the corridor. "You have to deflower me!"

Sam boggles and the girl takes advantage of his shock and pushes past him into the apartment. He closes the door and then turns to her, only to discover that she's peeled off the jacket and the denim jacket and the flannel shirt and is wearing only a thin t-shirt, which is clinging to her body in a way that would win her any wet t-shirt contest she entered, but which is doing nothing but bad things to Sam's conscience.

And then she peels the t-shirt off and lets it drop to the ground in a wet heap.

"What are you doing?" Sam hopes his voice doesn't sound quite so high pitched to her as it did to him.

"I told you! You have to deflower me!" She gestures wildly with her hands – a lot – and Sam's conscience acquires a few more black marks, because, well, _dude._

Sam throws up his hands. "OK, first of all? You wake me up in the middle of the night, barge into my apartment, strip naked and make demands like that, and I don't even know who you are!" He makes himself turn away from her, grabs a clean t-shirt from the laundry basket, and tosses it to her over his shoulder. "Get dressed, for crying out loud."

"Dammit, Sam, I'm not getting dressed. You have to-"

"How do you know my name?" He whirls, and dammit, she's still naked. More naked than before, because now she's got the jeans off, and is standing there wearing only a pair of boxer shorts that look like they're a couple of sizes too big. She shakes her head, her hair long enough to mercifully cover up a bit of her rather ample chest, and then Sam notices the glint of the pendant she's wearing. He stalks towards her, eyes narrowing, and grabs the pendant, yanking the girl forward and sending the stumbling into him.

"Where did you get this? Where did you get this pendant?" He lets go of the necklace and grabs her shoulders instead, shaking her. She grins at him, a crazy grin that looks oddly familiar and out of place on her delicate face, and then there's a moment where the world tilts insanely. Then he's lying on the floor, the girl straddling his chest, and he has a crazy urge to reach up and cup her breasts, because he has a feeling that they would fit perfectly into his hands, filling them like they were made for them… He tries to push her off him, but she's surprisingly strong and all he manages to do is grind his crotch into hers and that is definitely not something he wants to be doing right now.

And oh God, now she's leaning forward, pinning his hands to the floor with hers, leaning down over him…

Sam closes his eyes and concentrates desperately on the details of the conference in the morning, on anything but the (almost) naked girl sitting on top of him.

"Sammy! Open your fucking eyes and look at me!" She yells and the hated nickname has the desired effect, making him open his eyes in shock and stare up at the girl. He looks past her breasts and up at her face and takes in the green eyes and the almost obscenely pouty lips…

"Dean?" The words come out as a squeaky whisper, and the girl – _Dean_ – rolls her (his?) eyes at him.

"Took you long enough," Dean says, crossing his arms over his chest, which does disturbing things to his cleavage.

"Dude," Sam stares up at his brother's new face. "What the hell happened? And would you please get off me?"

Dean obliges, but takes his sweet time about it, taking an extra few seconds to grind obscenely into Sam's groin, grinning wickedly.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather I get you off instead, Sammy? Feels like you might need a helping hand… or two."

"What. Happened. To. You?" Sam very carefully lifts Dean up and pushes him away.

"You know that cult I was tracking? The one that wanted to summon Dagon?"

Sam nods, and watches Dean as he paces the living room. "Dude, could you put on a shirt or something?"

"I happen to be very comfortable with my body, Sammy, and it's unfair of you to behave like a member of the oppressive patriarchy just because you're uncomfortable with my vagina."

Sam buries his face in his hands. He isn't quite sure what he was more disturbed by – the fact that his _brother_ now has a vagina, or the utter wrongness of that statement coming out of _Dean's_ mouth.

"Fine," he tells Dean from behind clenched teeth. "Go on."

"Anyway, I managed to infiltrate the group. I wanted to see what kind of a threat they were, if they were even close."

"Let me guess, you got caught."

"Not quite," Dean says, and Sam swears he's striking a pose, standing in the middle of the living room, shoulders back, chest thrust out, hands on his hips. He looks like some sort of Amazon warrior woman, standing like that, and the thought veers sharply off into territory that makes Sam hide his face in his hands again.

"There was apparently some sort of prophecy," Dean continues. "Something about needing to sacrifice the child of a champion. Specifically a female champion. But seeing as there aren't a lot of them around, they had to get creative."

"They turned you into a girl so they could get you pregnant and then sacrifice your baby?" Sam stares at Dean, unbelieving. "Only you could possibly get yourself into something like this."

"First of all, they turned me into a woman, Sammy," Dean runs his hands over his chest and hips, wiggling suggestively. "And second, maybe if you'd been with me, I wouldn't be in this situation!"

"What, you're saying I'd be the girl?"

"No, I'm saying none of this would have happened because we would have stopped them before any of this happened. Now shut up and let me finish, will you? I've been on the run from them for four days, and they keep finding me, no matter where I go. I did some research. Turns out the woman who's supposed to bear the child has to be a virgin. So I figure, if I'm not a virgin anymore…"

"Wait," Sam holds up a hand. "You're a virgin? You? The walking, talking pickup line?"

Dean narrows his eyes, an expression that, strangely, looks a lot more frightening on him now that he's a girl than it had ever before.

"This body," he waves his hands around to indicate himself, "is only a few days old. I haven't had a chance to do everything… Yet," he adds the last word with a smirk.

"Oh, god, I don't want to know," Sam moans, wishing he could just wake up and have it all be a dream.

"Which brings me to the main reason for my visit," Dean stops and stands in front of Sam, hands on his hips again. "You have to deflower me."

"Are you sure that's all they did to you?" Sam looks up at him, but no amount of glaring he does can match the strength of Dean's glare beaming down at him. "Are you sure they didn't take away a few dozen IQ points, too?"

"Please, Sammy, you have to help me! If I'm not a virgin, I'll be useless to them and they'll leave me alone. Then we can look for a way to turn me back."

"Dude, you never had trouble finding willing partners before, why don't you just go out there and get yourself…" Sam makes a few vague hand gestures, and then gives up, "deflowered."

"Sam, think about it. I can't just let any old guy I picked up at a bar do this! It has to be special! It has to be… _nice,_" he finishes the last word in a quiet voice, his expression softening, becoming almost pleading. "Please, Sammy?"

"Dean, I…" He is simply at a loss for words, so he settles for sitting down and rubbing his temples with his fingers, as if he rubs hard enough, all of this will go away.

"I guess if you're not willing to help, I'm gonna be the proud momma of a bouncing baby sacrifice in about nine months. I'm sure they'll let me go after they get what they want from me…" Dean sighs theatrically and sinks down on the couch, sitting with his knees hugged to his chest.

"Dean…" Sam shakes his head. "Look, I have a teleconference in the morning, but after that, I've got a free day. I promise, after I'm done, we'll look into this, try and figure out a way out of it. We can find someone…"

"Dude, no!" Dean shakes his head, sending his hair flying. "If it was any other time, I wouldn't even be here, I'd have taken care of it already, but this…"

Sam feels himself edging closer to agreeing – after all, barring the moral objections to sleeping with his brother (is Dean still his brother, though? isn't he a completely different person now? and why is his brain suddenly playing devil's advocate, on this issue of all things?) he's not necessarily averse to having sex with a beautiful woman.

"All right," he finally says. "I need to get some sleep, so I'm halfway conscious for the conference later, and then we'll see what we can figure out, OK?" The hopeful look in Dean's eyes is so goddamn beautiful that Sam almost agrees to help right then and there, if it will only keep that look there. But then reason steps in and he gets up and walks to the closet to get some pillows and a blanket for Dean.

"You can sleep on the couch. My conference is at six, and it shouldn't take longer than an hour at most. After that, we'll get to work. There are some spare clothes on the shelf in there," he motions to the closet, "something will probably fit you."

"You have girl clothes in your closet, Sammy?" Dean raises a delicate eyebrow, and his lips slide effortlessly into the trademark smirk. "What happened, she move out and forget her things, or is there something I should know about you?"

"Not girl clothes, dumbass. Just extras I don't wear anymore. Now shut up and get some sleep." Sam stomps off to his bedroom, and resists the urge to slam the door behind him. It's bad enough that his brother always does this – shows up at the worst possible time, throwing Sam's carefully arranged life into disarray just by the simple act of stepping through the front door – but this time he just had to go and turn himself into a girl, to complicate things some more.

***

When his alarm clock goes off two hours later, he reaches for it to turn it off – and misses. There are arms and legs wrapped around him, holding him tightly. He wonders at the calm with which he accepts the fact that his brother – his turned-into-a-girl-and-propositioned-him-last-night brother) – is lying in bed with him, naked (_oh God,_ he thinks, _naked!_). He pulls away from the warm body behind him and stretches as far as he can to finally reach the off switch with his fingertips, and then the arms tighten around him, pulling him back into Dean's sleepy embrace. He hears Dean mumble something in his sleep, something that sounds suspiciously like his own name, and a surprisingly large part of his brain – no, his entire being – wants to just settle into Dean's arms and stay there as long as he can. It's a lot easier to pretend that it's OK when the arms wrapped around him are slender, ending in long-fingered hands that don't bear half the calluses and scars that his own do.

Reason kicks in, however – if only because if he's not in front of the webcam for the teleconference, he'll have to start looking for another job, and he starts to disentangle himself from Dean. This prompts a protest, both verbal – more awake mumblings now – and physical, in the form of arms and legs tightening and refusing to let go. Finally, he manages to pry Dean's arms off and sits up, realizing that the uncomfortable erection he's currently sporting has less to do with it being morning and more with waking up with his brother draped over him.

He keeps the water in the shower colder than normal, trying to let the spray drive away distracting thoughts so he can focus on the tricky conversation ahead of him. His mind, however, has different ideas, and Dean's distressingly hot new body fills his thoughts. Sam responds by turning the hot water off completely, and finishing his shower in record time. Ten minutes later, he's sitting down in front of the computer, slightly wet hair still clinging to his neck, adjusting his tie. Hopefully, the conference will go as quickly as he's been told it's bound to, and he can focus on turning his brother back to normal, hopefully without any more close encounters of the incestuous kind.

He turns the computer on, starts up the teleconferencing program, watches as the other participants arrive, and settles in to wait for the client to arrive. Fifteen minutes past the agreed upon time, the client's connection is finally established and they are told by a breathless young secretary that due to extenuating circumstances, the teleconference will have to be postponed indefinitely. Without any further explanations, she cuts the connection and just like that, it's over. Everyone breathes a sigh of relief, and one by one, people start signing off. As Sam talks with one of the people – a nervous looking man from the East Coast – he looks up and chokes at the sight of Dean walking into the room, naked and smiling. Dean stops in the door, leans against the doorframe, and strikes a pose. Sam isn't quite sure what the pose is supposed to say, but he's certain it's something at least vaguely obscene, no matter who's interpreting it.

"Uh, Mike, I gotta go," he says, and turns things off by touch, his eyes not leaving Dean's. Once the computer is off, he finally manages to tear his eyes away and debates what to do next.

Plan A: make sure that, in the event the cult members do manage to find Dean – and Sam is quite sure they will, sooner rather than later – Dean is an unsuitable candidate for their sacrifice.   
Possible solution: find someone to "deflower" Dean, as was suggested last night.   
Problems with that solution: Dean will most likely not agree to it.   
Alternative solution: do it himself, as was suggested last night.  
Problems with that solution: Aside from the whole brothers thing?

Plan B: turn Dean back into a guy, thereby rendering the need for plan A null and void.

Right, plan B it was. Sam loosens his tie and gets up, walking over to where Dean is standing.

"Put on some clothes, for crying out loud. We're going out." Without waiting for Dean's reply, he pushes past him, taking particular care not to brush up against Dean's naked body on the way out.

"What am I supposed to wear?" Dean trails after him, and Sam can _hear_ the pouting without even looking at Dean.

"I told you, there are some spare clothes," Sam motions toward the closet. "You're shorter than you were before, and thinner, so it won't be a good fit, but it'll do."

"Where are we going?" Dean is rummaging through the closet and Sam looks over at him only to instantly regret it when he sees that Dean is standing on his toes to get something from a higher shelf, which gives Sam a view of the creamy white expanse of Dean's back and ass, making him rethink, if only for a few seconds, going with plan B

"Library, first, and then a couple of people I know. They might have some information on spells like these, and hopefully something about reversing them." Sam heads into the bedroom to change out of the suit jacket and shirt. He took advantage of the waist-up display of the webcam and wore jeans, so changing was fast and easy. He has the jacket and shirt off, and is reaching for a t-shirt when Dean walks into the bedroom, thankfully dressed, but with a strange look on his face.

"You're still trying to find a different way of taking care of this, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Sam says, pulling his shirt on and avoiding eye contact with Dean.

"Why, Sam? Why can't you just…"

"Because I'm your _brother,_ Dean," he yells, whirling on Dean and regrets it immediately when Dean steps back, almost flinching away. "It's just… it doesn't work like that, Dean."

He watches Dean hang his head and walk slowly to sit at the edge of the bed. "I'm…" Dean opens his mouth several times as if to say something, but no words come out and finally, he shakes his head. His hair is still loose, but he's brushed it and now it flows around his face like a shimmering curtain, softening his features even more. He's done something to the shirt he's wearing, tied a knot in the hem or something, and it fits him quite well, actually. As opposed to the pants, which look like if they weren't held up by the tightly cinched belt, they'd fall off his hips the moment he stood up.

Sam opens his closet and reaches up to the top shelf, where there actually are a few things left behind by one girl or another. There have been several, none of them quite serious enough to move in with him – not after they get to know him and his strange quirks a little better – but a couple of them have left things behind. He grabs a couple of pairs of jeans, and tosses them to Dean.

"Here, try these on, they might fit better." Dean's face lights up in a grin/smirk combination and he raises an eyebrow, but before he can say anything, Sam holds up a hand. "And try not to damage them too much, I might have to give them back."

"When was the last time you had a girl in here, Sam?" Dean asks as he starts to strip the too-big jeans off, revealing that he's not wearing underwear. At least he has the sense to turn his back to Sam, so all he's showing off is his ass. Which, to Sam's already strained conscience, isn't really that much better. "Because trust me, if it's been long enough to put these on the back shelf in the closet? They're not coming back."

"Since when did you become such an expert on relationships, Dean?" Sam catches himself, frowning at the tone of his voice.

"Since you left long ago enough that I moved the things you left behind from the back seat into a box in the trunk," Dean answers back and Sam flinches at the bluntness. Maybe he deserves it, along with the glare he's receiving from Dean at the moment. His decision to leave didn't exactly go over well when he made it, and it took a while for them to reconnect and stay in touch.

"All right, fair point," he concedes, not wanting a fight. Dean pulls the pants on and they fit him almost perfectly. Dean notices it, too, striking poses and admiring his reflection in the mirror.

"Dude, check out my ass," he grins, hands going back to cup said ass. "If it wasn't such a pain in the ass to be a girl, this would almost be worth it."

Sam resists the urge to roll his eyes and settles for heading out into the living room. He picks up the still-wet clothes Dean left scattered all over the floor and dumps them in the laundry basket, with the exception of Dean's beloved leather jacket, which he drapes over the back of a chair, frowning at the stiffness of the leather.

"Are you ready to go yet, Dean?"

"Why exactly are we heading out so early?" Dean asks as he comes out of the bedroom, pulling his hair back into a loose ponytail.

"Because we want to get an early start," Sam says, leaving out the _duh_ he has an urge to add. He holds the front door open and lets Dean lead the way outside.

"Do you really think we'll be able to find something?" Dean's voice is quiet in the early morning air, and Sam turns around to look at him. What he finds on Dean's face is a complete lack of the cockiness and bravado that usually reside there, and it makes something inside him clench with the overwhelming desire to do anything and everything necessary to fix things, to make his brother himself again.

"Yeah," he says, looking away, because he hates to lie, to Dean or to anybody else, "I'm sure of it." The truth is, he has no idea how to fix this. The more specific the purpose of the spell, the more difficult it will be to reverse it, and even with the library's curiously extensive collection dealing with the supernatural, and with his contacts' knowledge, he's still not certain they'll be able to find out how to fix this. For the moment, though, he lies to himself as well as to Dean, and walks out of the apartment building onto the street.

Dean automatically heads for the Impala, while Sam walks towards his beaten up old Toyota. Sam looks at his car, then at the Impala, and follows Dean without a word. There is no way that he would be able to get Dean into that car, and even if he managed, having to listen to Dean mock him would be far too much.

He takes the passenger seat, since Dean is already behind the wheel, and points up the street. "Head for the campus, we'll hit that library first."

***

Three hours later, they're sitting at the biggest table in the room, every inch of its surface covered in books and notes and photocopies, and they aren't any closer to finding a solution.

"There is nothing here," Dean pushes the book he's looking through away and leans back in his chair. "We've looked through these books three times, Sammy. It's time to call it quits and get out of here."

Sam looks up from the book – the same one he's been looking through for the last half an hour, desperately clinging to the hope of finding _something_ they could use – and nods wearily.

"You're right. We'll go see Stone, and if he doesn't have anything, he might be able to tell us where we should go." He doesn't bother mentioning that he doubts either Stone or anyone else will have anything useful for them. All evidence he's found so far – things he's taken care not to let Dean see – point to only one solution, the one he's not willing to consider until they've exhausted all other possibilities.

Sam feels like he should offer to put the books away, but one look at Dean, and the mix of growing frustration and fear on his face, and he settles for merely closing them all and stacking them on the table. Besides, in his experience, librarians don't like people reshelving books on their own. He gathers the notes and photocopies into his own bag and they head out, to drive across town to Frank Stone's shop, hidden in a hole in the wall kind of space.

Frank ogles Dean, whom Sam introduces simply as a "friend," and gets himself one of the finest "bitch, _please_" glares that Sam has ever seen. When Frank speculates on the nature of their relationship, Sam sees Dean smile wickedly out of the corner of his eye and braces himself for the inevitable inappropriate behavior that will do doubt follow. Sure enough, Dean spends most of the time they're in the store draping himself over Sam, or bending down low over the tables as they look at various books. When they finally leave, an hour later, Dean has a couple of fingers hooked into the back of Sam's belt, holding him close, practically molding their hips to each other.

And then, when they're halfway across the street to where the Impala is parked, Sam feels Dean stiffen against his side and walk faster, pulling him along.

"What's wrong?" He asks, scanning their surroundings, falling back into what he was trained to do like a goddamn machine, cogs and gears long thought rusted and dead meshing together like a well-oiled mechanism and he guesses there are just some things you never forget. He sees the black van idling by the curb a couple of stores away just before Dean points it out, and measures the men coming out of it at a sprint with an experienced glance, figuring out how to best take them on.

Then the men are on them, trying to separate them, trying to take Sam out and then take Dean away to be defiled by god knows whom and impregnated and sacrificed and… Sam's vision goes red as he fights, pushing and punching and kicking his way through the men. As he throws a punch at a particularly burly looking cultist, he sees Dean whirl and kick at someone's head in a near perfect roundhouse kick, and gets a fist in the gut for staring at the way Dean's long leg looks sliding through the air.

There are sirens in the air, and Sam sends a mental thank you to Frank, who must have called the police when he saw them attacked. The cultists must realize that they're not going to get their prize this time, because they slink back to their van and drive away. Dean helps Sam get to his feet and they look back to the store, where Frank is standing in the open door, phone still in hand. They wave to him, and he waves back, and then he's gone back inside the store.

"You think Dad would be able to help?" Dean says as they get into the car.

Sam pauses, and looks at Dean, wide-eyed. "You're willing to call him about this?"

"Dude, these guys want to impregnate me and then kill my baby," Dean says, his voice catching a little. "Maybe I'm just being all girly and hormonal, but seriously, I wouldn't wish something like this on anyone. I'd rather go to Dad than just give up. Unless you have a better idea?"

Sam shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Dean. I was sure we could find something."

Dean nods and starts up the car, and Sam again finds himself wishing there was something he could do to take the look of sadness and fear off Dean's face.

"So where are we going?" Dean asks.

"Let's just go back to my place. We'll call Dad, regroup, do some research online. We're not going to find anything here that we can't try finding from home."

***

John Winchester doesn't answer his phone, all twelve or thirteen times they try calling him. The messages they leave on his voice mail grow more and more urgent, but at Dean's insistence, reveal nothing about their predicament beyond "there's something we need your help with." To add to the frustrations, their research gets them nowhere, either, beyond what Sam already knows – there is only one surefire way of spoiling the sacrifice, and he's not quite willing to go there yet, not even after the close call they had earlier.

Finally, Dean gets up from where he's sitting at the computer and paces the room, stretching his legs.

"I can't take this anymore, Sammy. I'm going for a drive."

"What about the cultists? They know where you are now, they'll try to grab you again."

"I'm not going to sit here and hide and wait for them to go away, Sam!" Dean grabs his leather jacket off the back of the chair in the living room and heads out the door.

"Let me come with you," Sam offers, but Dean shakes his head and keeps walking. Sam grabs a jacket and starts to follow anyway, because even if he has to drive after the Impala in his piece of crap car, he's not letting Dean out of his sight.

He can see Dean standing over the open trunk of the Impala when he gets to the street, and starts to head across the street to talk to his brother. He doesn't get far before he feels something hard hit the back of his head and everything goes black for a few moments as he sinks to his knees. There are people running past him, and then there's the sound of a fight – punches, kicks, grunts – and then Dean is shouting his name, voice so filled with fear that it's like a slap to the face and Sam is on his feet, running to save his brother. He punches and kicks and screams and then he's got Dean's hand in his, and they're running back to the building.

They make it into the apartment mere moments before the first of the cultists following them reaches the door and pounds on it. Sam leans back against the wall, breathing hard.

"These guys are gonna get me kicked out of this place," he says, laughing despite himself.

Dean glares at him and paces the living room, pausing now and then to look out the window.

"They're not going away, Sam. They're just standing there, looking up at us."

Sam joins Dean by the window and sees he's right. The cultists have spread out in the street, standing almost motionless, just staring up at the window. Two of them are standing by the Impala, two others by his own car.

"Great. They're going to try and wait us out."

"What if we call the cops? Complain about them stalking me or something? Cops are real big on protecting helpless women like me."

Sam rolls his eyes. "If we called the cops, they'd just leave, and come after us later."

"So, what, we're stuck here?"

"Looks like it," Sam nods, and heads to the kitchen. "I'm going to call Dad again, see if I can reach him. And this time, I'm leaving a more detailed message. If he knows how bad things are, maybe he'll take us more seriously."

Sam's phone rings before he can reach for it, and he looks at Dean.

"What are you waiting for? Maybe it's Dad!"

"Yeah," Sam says, and answers the phone. Before he can even get the "hello" out, he's interrupted.

"All we want is the girl," the voice says. By all rights, we should kill you and then take her, but our time is growing short and we are willing to let you go."

"What makes you think I'm willing to make a deal with you?"

"Because if you don't, we'll burn the building and everyone in it down," the voice says. "Take a look out the window."

Sam looks out the window and sees that the men in the street are no longer there. They're not gone, but they're moving around, pouring gas from the bright red gas cans they're carrying all over the walls, and piling things – broken up board and the like – around the building to help the blaze.

Sam feels Dean come up to stand beside him, and they watch the cultists in horror. The man on the phone with Sam is standing in the middle of the street and he waves to them, looking for all the world like an old friend greeting them.

"Are you willing to sacrifice yourself along with your neighbors for her? Are you willing to let her die to save her from this?"

"If you set the building on fire, you'll kill us, too," Sam says, even though he knows it will have no effect.

"I don't think it's going to go that far," the man says. "I think you two will realize that your safety isn't worth all these innocent lives, and the girl will come with us, to fulfill her part in the prophecy. Once she has done that, your brother will be returned to you."

And there it is. The carrot at the end of the stick. The arsenic-laced carrot, no doubt, but a carrot nevertheless.

"I want to come with you. Stay with Dean, until it's over."

"Dude, what are you doing?" Dean whispers and Sam waves him away. Dean pulls him away from the window and grabs the phone from his hand. "Forget it, asshole!" he yells into the phone and hangs it up. "What the fuck was that about, Sammy? Are you insane?"

"Dean, calm down," Sam grabs for the phone, but Dean keeps it away. "I'm trying to stall him. So we can figure out what to do."

"I'll tell you what we're _not_ going to do." Dean is standing close to him now, and if he was his original height, he would be able to pull off getting in Sam's face much more effectively than now, but somehow, he still manages to do it with a fair degree of effectiveness. "We are not going to turn ourselves over to them, we are not going to go anywhere near them, and we sure as hell aren't going to let them burn this building down."

"What would you suggest we do, then?" Sam straightens up to his full height and towers over Dean. "_You_ got yourself into this, _you_ come up with a solution." The last words come out as yelling.

"I DID!" Dean yells back. "All you have to do is _fuck me_ and it'll all be over! I know you saw it in the books, because I saw it, too. I know you saw it in the research online, because I saw it, too. So why don't you stop making fucking excuses and just GET TO IT?"

The phone rings again, and Sam answers with a half-yelled "What?"

"I am running out of patience," the voice told him. "You have ten minutes to come out of the building, or we _will_ set fire to it." There is a click and the call ends. Sam puts the phone back in its cradle and sits down on the couch.

"They're giving us ten minutes. Then they start setting fires."

"I have an idea," Dean says suddenly. "Is there a back exit out of this building?" When Sam nods, Dean starts to pace again. "If we go out that way, can we go around and get to the car from the other side? Like, circle around, sneak up on them from behind?"

"We might be able to, but what makes you think they won't be watching the back exit?"

"Because I'm going out the front door."

"What? Are you insane?"

Dean grins, and even on a woman's face, it still looks like the old familiar expression, full of mischief and immense potential for mayhem. "Trust me, little brother, I know what I'm doing. Here's what I want you to do. Grab any gear you have in this place, pack it up, and go out the back, circle around to the car. Get in the driver's seat, and wait. Just before the ten minutes are up, I'll go outside and turn myself over to them. I figure if I'm real cooperative, they'll let me grab something from the car." He holds out the keys to the Impala.

"That'll never work," Sam shakes his head.

"Of course it will," Dean's grin is now cocky in addition to mischievous. "They're taking me with them to spend the next nine months away from anything familiar, remember? I'll just cry and pout and sob, and they'll have to let me at least open the door and grab stuff from the inside."

"OK, then what?" As crazy as the plan is, Sam is starting to think that maybe it'll work, so he takes the keys Dean is holding out.

"I open the door, dive in, and you start the car and floor it. We get far enough away from here, take care of my little problem, and then we won't have anything else to worry about."

"Maybe Dad—"

"No, Sam! No Dad, no Frank, no books, no research! You know what you have to do!"

Sam nods, once, very curtly, and then goes to gather his gear. They don't have a lot of time, so he doesn't grab nearly everything he'd like to take with him.

"Be careful," he tells Dean, and then he's out the door and running down the stairs to the back exit.

Surprisingly, there are no cultists watching the back door, and Sam breathes a little bit easier. He's got a feeling, though, that getting out of the building was the easiest part of the whole plan. He'll worry about that on the way, though, he decides, and tries to find the fastest way of getting to the other side of the street.

Lucky for him, late afternoon is a good time for walks, and the park across the street provides a nice destination for people going on walks. There is a small crowd waiting to cross at the nearest crosswalk, and he walks with them, trying to blend in. As best as he can judge, the car is only a couple of hundred feet away, and the cultists aren't paying particular attention to it.

There is a commotion, and he looks to see Dean stepping out of the building, hair flying in the light breeze. Dean looks absolutely terrified, and Sam has a feeling that only part of that is an act. The cultists abandon their posts and surge towards Dean, who is walking down the front steps as slowly as he can. Sam breaks into a run, as inconspicuous as he can make it, and is crouched by the car before all the cultists have reached Dean.

He watches as they circle around Dean, looking at him with something bordering on reverence. _Well, of course_, Sam thinks. _He's going to be the mother of the sacrifice that brings the demon to Earth_. Then he's opening the car door, with _the hell he will!_ flashing through his head. Trying to rock the car as little as possible, he slides into the front seat and gently closes the passenger side door behind him. He ducks down in the front seat, puts the key into the ignition, and listens to what's going on outside.

"I just want to grab a couple of things!" Dean protests, tears clearly audible in his voice. "You guys are taking me away for nine months, can't I at least grab something to take with me?" He's crying now, and Sam wonders how much of that is forced. There are muffled words, spoken too softly for him to hear, but then Dean is opening the back door and whispering "get ready, Sammy," so that only Sam can hear it.

One of the men outside says something and Dean straightens up to answer him, and then he's diving into the back seat, slamming the door shut behind him and locking it.

"Now, Sam! GO!"

Sam turns the key in the ignition, and for a horrifyingly long minute he thinks that he turned it too hard and too fast and that it broke, but then the engine roars to life and he floors the gas pedal before he has a chance to straighten up completely. There is shouting and running outside, but he's keeping his eyes on the road and ignoring what's going on behind them – what are the cultists going to do, pull out guns and shoot the car in full view of dozens of people? Once they're a couple of blocks away, he throws a worried glance at Dean, who's still slumped in the back seat.

"Dean, you OK?"

"Yeah, Sammy, I'm fine. I just banged my head when I dove in. But I guess better that than the alternative." Dean sits up, rubbing the top of his head, mussing up his long hair. Sam glances in the rearview mirror and is struck by how fucking beautiful girl!Dean is.

"Where are we going, Dean?"

"Keep driving. We need to get away from those guys before we do anything."

"Yeah, I know that, but which way should we go?"

"Dude, just pick a direction and drive," Dean snaps irritably, and the climbs into the front seat, a maneuver which gives Sam ample opportunity to admire Dean's ass wiggling its way in from the back. After that, he keeps his eyes firmly on the road, no matter how tempting it is to look at Dean, sprawled out beside him, head lolling back as he sleeps, the sun playing over his skin, highlighting it and painting it with shades of gold.

***

An hour later, Sam notices two things. One, they're running low on gas, and probably don't have enough to get them to the nearest gas station. And two, there is a black van on the road behind them, which has been there for at least thirty minutes.

"Dean, wake up." A sleepy mumble is all the answer he gets until he nudges Dean, which makes Dean jolt awake and sit up so suddenly the seat belt pulls him back, making him swear at it in turn.

"We have a problem," Sam tells him.

"What is it now?"

"We're running out of gas, and I think the bad guys aren't that far behind us. We're going to have to stop somewhere."

Dean nods and points to a rest stop sign as they drive past it. "There. We can stop there."

Late afternoon gives way to evening by the time they pull into the secluded and deserted rest stop. They both head for the trunk, to grab some weapons, and then stand beside each other, cringing at the awkward silence.

"You're trying to come up with a way to get out of doing this, aren't you?" Dean finally breaks the silence.

Sam shakes his head. "Actually, I was trying to decide on where we're going to—" He trails off, as if not finishing the sentence will somehow make what they're about to do become unnecessary.

"Well, I always wanted to have sex on the hood of the car," Dean flashes him a grin and opens the trunk again. He pulls out a blanket and holds it up. "So the paint job doesn't get scratched."

"Oh, of course," Sam rolls his eyes, and feels the tension let up a bit. He follows Dean to the front of the car, and watches him spread the blanket out. All of a sudden, he feels like he's seventeen again, about to have sex for the first time.

Blanket spread out to his satisfaction, Dean turns to Sam and grins. "You ready?" Sam nods nervously and Dean laughs. "Dude, you'd think you were the virgin and not me. Come on, Sam, we don't have a lot of time." He reaches out for Sam's belt and pulls him close, standing on his tiptoes to kiss Sam's mouth. The kiss is awkward and fumbling at first, but then grows more sure and more heated. Caught in the heat of the moment, they let their hands roam where they will, and Dean has to focus on the task at hand instead of just abandoning himself to the sensations Sam's hands are evoking.

He undoes Sam's belt and zipper and then drops to his knees, reaching for Sam's cock. He's pretty sure Sam will need at least a little bit of encouragement, and is surprised at how hard Sam already is. Biting back a sarcastic comment he has a feeling would ruin the mood and doom them both, Dean settles for licking the head of Sam's cock, making him groan and thrust his hips forward.

"Dean, please," Sam's hands pull him up and fumble at Dean's jeans. He wiggles out of them – which he's _sure_ is what made Sam moan just then – and kicks them off to lie on the ground.

Sam grabs Dean's waist and lifts him up onto the hood of the car, bending down over him, capturing his lips in a kiss. Dean slides forward so that his hips align with Sam's and groans as Sam slides one of his hands down to the wet heat between his legs and slips a finger inside him.

"God, Sammy, please—" Dean throws his head back, and Sam licks a long swipe up the length of Dean's neck, from where the t-shirt dips just between his breasts all the way to the sensitive spot just below the ear. Sam does something with his hand where he adds a second finger and then twists them inside him and then Dean is making a keening noise as his ass leaves the rough woven blanket and he fucks himself on Sam's hand. He hisses at the brief moment of pain and Sam draws back – _goddammit, Sam!_ – but either Sam realizes they have to keep going or is too far gone himself and the fingers come back, and Dean lays back on the car, opening his legs up, opening himself up.

The fingers are gone again, and Dean looks up, whimpering. Sam is staring at his fingers, and Dean notices the slightly reddish tinge to them. He looks up to Sam's face, expecting a horrified expression and is surprised by what he sees – slight concern and heightening arousal.

"Are you all right?" Dean asks, and Sam nods, smiling.

"Are you?" It's Dean's turn to nod, this time.

"Good," Sam says, and surges forward, sliding inside Dean, and oh god, it feels so fucking good, so fucking _right_. He stops, giving Dean time to adjust, but from the mewling noises Dean is making and the small thrusts of his hips, he doesn't really need that much time. Sam feels legs wrap around his waist, pulling him in closer, and takes that as his cue to keep going. It's not going to last long, he knows, as he thrusts into Dean, holding back a little to avoid hurting him. Dean sits up a little, pulling Sam down into a kiss, and thrusting up at him, legs tightly wrapped around him, head thrown back.

There is the sound of a car passing, and they freeze, clutching at each other, waiting for the cultists to come at them, but the sound keeps going and no one pulls into the rest stop. They sigh with relief, and as the realization that they're safe – at least for a little longer – hits them, they pause to look at each other.

Sam is surprised to feel no urge to pull back, to stop what he's doing and, judging by the way Dean's fingers are digging into his hips, holding him in place, neither does Dean. Another couple of seconds of eye contact, and Sam abandons all pretense at going slow and gentle, and grips Dean's hips, pulling him forward and starts to honestly and sincerely fuck him.

Dean writhes under him, tossing his head back and forth, hands flailing about, desperate for something to touch. Finally, they settle on his breasts, pushing the t-shirt up and out of the way. Sam groans at the sight and thrusts harder, feeling himself close to the edge. He lets go of Dean's hips, one hand reaching up to cup one of Dean's breasts, the other moving between them to rub at Dean's clit. That makes Dean make the mewling sounds and jerk his hips up again, his back and shoulders rising off the car like he's trying to levitate. Sam puts his arm around Dean, supporting him and pulling him up, and Dean wraps his arms around Sam's neck, hanging on for dear life as he kisses him again.

Dean's hands slide under Sam's jacket and shirt, finding the bare skin of his back. As Sam thrusts harder, Dean's nails dig into Sam's back, leaving long scratches behind. Sam twists his fingers one last time, which makes Dean throw his head back and scream like a wild cat, and then he's gone himself, thrusting one last time to spend himself inside Dean.

They cling to each other for a long while, until Dean pushes him back a little.

"Dude, I don't know about you, but I'm getting cold. And my ass is chafing from this blanket."

Sam laughs and pulls away, looking around for something clean them up with. Dean solves that problem by yanking his shirt over his head and handing it to Sam. After a quick cleanup, they put the blanket away and get into the car.

"Are you OK?" Sam asks nervously.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Better than fine, after that," Dean laughs as he pulls on a shirt, and Sam relaxes a bit. Performance anxiety has never been a problem for him, but given that he just had sex with his brother-turned-girl, he figures he can allow himself a little leeway.

"So, you think that was enough?" He asks Dean, who turns to him and leers.

"Coming up with reasons to do it again already, Sammy?"

"Shut up. You know what I mean."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. Most things I saw about this type of spell said it takes a while for things to wear off."

"We'll have to wait, I guess. I hope it kicks in before we have to go back on the highway, because we're almost out of gas, and I don't want to leave you alone like this."

"Dude," Dean sits straight up, looking as if he'd just had a "eureka!" moment. "There's an emergency gas can in the trunk! It's full, unless something happened to it."

Sam gets out of the car and walks to the trunk. Sure enough, the gas can is there. He fills the tank, and gets back in the car.

"Do you think it's safe enough to go back to my place?"

Dean's smile vanishes off his face. "You want to go back home?"

"Well, yeah," Sam nods. "Did you think it was going to be like last time again?" He doesn't need Dean to answer to know that's exactly what Dean thought it was going to be like.

They're both quiet as Sam pulls out of the rest stop and onto the highway, heading back into town.

***

Dean tries to decline coming upstairs, but since he's still not back to his normal self, Sam manages to make him come up.

"I don't want you out there until we know it worked," he tells Dean, but the expected retort doesn't happen, and Dean sulks all the way upstairs.

It seems that as soon as they got away, the cultists went after them, and didn't harm anybody in the building. The smell of gasoline still lingers in the air outside, but the kindling and broken up boards are gone.

When they're back inside the apartment, Dean heads for the shower without a word. Sam tries to stop him, tries to talk to him, but Dean just ignores him and closes the door behind him. Sam paces the living room for a little while, and is just reaching a decision to go into the bathroom and demand that Dean talk to him when the phone rings.

"Hello?" He answers cautiously.

"I didn't think you had it in you," the man says, chuckling. "Honestly, fucking your own brother."

"Did we stop you?" Sam has a horrifying thought that it was all a setup, designed to make them to exactly what they did. "Did it work?"

The man picks up on the nervousness in Sam's voice and laughs again. "I guess you'll just have to wait and see."


	2. Strange Cravings and Throwing Up Are the Least of Your Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dude, if I'm gonna pee on seventeen million sticks, the least you can do is hold them for me."

Sam comes back from lunch to a stack of pink "While You Were Out" message slips. He flips through them and each and every single one says the same thing: "Call Dana."

He spends five minutes trying to figure out who "Dana" is, since there is no phone number, and is half way to the receptionist's desk to ask who "Dana" is when it hits him. He's walking back to his desk when Allison calls out to him.

"Sam, did you get the messages? Call your girlfriend, she sounds upset!" He turns around and Allison is glaring at him, no doubt suspecting him of having done something awful to make his girlfriend upset.

"I know, thanks! I'm going to call her right now," Sam says, and slinks back to his desk.

Feeling strangely sheepish, he dials the phone and sighs in relief when Dean picks it up on the second ring.

"Sammy?" Dean's been crying, Sam can hear it in his voice.

"What's going on, Dea-" He stops himself, glances up to make sure no one overheard him. "What's going on, Dana?"

"Where have you been, I've been calling and calling," Dean sniffles.

"I went out to lunch with a client," Sam explains. "What's wrong? Why are you crying?"

"I think I'm sick, Sammy. Something's wrong with me. I've been throwing up all morning, and I can't stop crying like a girl!"

"Well, you _are_ a girl." Sam knows he shouldn't have said it the moment the words are out of his mouth. Dean just starts sobbing uncontrollably and somewhere in the course of the fit drops the phone, so Sam is left listening to the sounds of crying.

Gently, he hangs up the phone, grabs his jacket and bag, and heads for reception.

"Allison, I need to go home. Dana's really sick, and I need to make sure she's OK."

Allison just waves him towards the elevator, glaring at him so hard that he swears he can feel her eyes boring a hole into his back.

When Sam gets home, Dean is sitting on the floor in the bathroom, hugging the toilet.

"Dean, are you—" Dean holds up a hand a leans over the toilet again. Sam winces at the dry heaving that wracks Dean's body and kneels next to him, holding his hair back from his face. When Dean stops retching, Sam grabs a wet washcloth and hands it to Dean.

"Are you all right?"

"What do you think, Sam? Do I look like I'm all right?" Dean snaps at him, dry throat making the words crack. He gets up from the floor and starts to brush his teeth. "It's that casserole we ate last night, it made me sick."

"You had the casserole the day before yesterday, too, and I didn't hear you complaining."

"That's because you were already gone when I puked," Dean glares at him.

"Why didn't you say something, then?"

"Because I knew you were going to blame it on drinking or something. God forbid it should be your fault!" Dean whirls on him, and Sam can see the tears Dean's trying to hold back.

"How long have you been feeling sick?" A niggling thought tickles the back of Sam's mind, but doesn't materialize into anything yet.

"A couple of days."

"Maybe you've got the flu or something? I haven't gotten sick from the casserole, and I've had it both nights, same as you."

"That's because you've built up a tolerance to all that healthy food you eat."

"You're just pissed off that you got sick, so you're trying to blame me for this."

"Of course I'm blaming you for this. This," Dean motions wildly to indicate himself, "is all your fault. If you had been with me, none of this would have happened."

"Yeah, we've been over that. And yet, here we are. There's some ginger ale in the fridge, it might help your stomach settle. I'll go and pick up some ginger tea or something."

"I thought we were going to do research today, try to figure out why I haven't turned—" Dean breaks off and pushes Sam out of the way as he lunges for the toilet again. Sam leans down to hold Dean's hair again and gets a flailing hand in his stomach instead. Taking the hint, he backs off. Backs out of the bathroom completely, and goes into his office, closing the door behind him to block out the gut wrenching sounds of Dean dry heaving.

Sam realizes there's no going back to work this afternoon and goes as far as to pick up the telephone to call Allison and tell her he won't be back, when his eye catches the calendar on his desk. His heart jumps into his throat as he does the math, repeating it several times just to be sure, and then runs back to the bathroom and bursts in.

"Dean, have you had a period since you got turned into a girl?" His voice cracks a little on the last word.

"Dude, what?" Dean grimaces, as if Sam just suggested they switch their diet to vegan, or stop drinking beer.

"You're a girl, Dean. You have girl parts. And part of the whole being a girl thing is having a period." Sam speaks slowly, trying not to freak Dean out. Too bad he's already freaked out enough for the both of them.

"So what are you saying?"

"Think about it, Dean! They made you a girl so they could make you pregnant. That means you're a _fully functional_ girl." Sam really doesn't want to say it out loud. Maybe if he doesn't, maybe it'll help make the whole thing less real. Less freaky. Unfortunately, just then, Dean's brain slips into gear and a lightbulb goes on over his head.

"Oh god," Dean says, his eyes widening, and Sam can't help but agree.

"Yeah," Sam breathes, and sags against the doorframe.

"What do we do?"

"Get dressed," Sam tells Dean and goes back to the living room. He paces while he waits, because he knows that if he stops moving, he'll simply end up curled up in a corner somewhere, muttering _this is not happening, this is not happening_ while rocking back and forth, and nothing, not even the hordes of hell outside his door, will make him move again.

Dean dresses in record time, throwing on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, forgoing the makeup-and-hair routine he's settled into (far too easily, in Sam's opinion) in the last two weeks.

"Where are we going?"

"Drug store," Sam tells him. He grabs his keys and heads out, not bothering to check if Dean is following, because Dean is indeed following, and he's walking close enough behind Sam that Sam can feel him breathing down his neck.

They hit seven different drug stores and pharmacies, and come home with twenty three different pregnancy tests. Sam lines the boxes up on the counter, lays them out neatly – box, instructions, stick – and steps out into the bedroom, where it's apparently Dean's turn to pace.

"OK, go to it," Sam motions him into the bathroom. Dean takes one look inside and shakes his head.

"Uhn-uh," he backs away from the door. "I'm not doing this."

"Dean, we have to know…"

"_You_ want to know, _I'm_ perfectly happy living in denial!"

"Dean…"

"Don't you _Dean_ me, Sammy. This is all your fault!"

"My fault? How is it my fault?"

Dean just looks at him, and Sam can't not look away and blush.

"OK, _point_. But we have to know."

Dean stands in the bathroom doorway, wavering between going in and yelling some more at Sam. Finally, he goes inside, then turns around to glare at Sam.

"Dude, if I'm gonna pee on seventeen million sticks, the least you can do is hold them for me."

Sam gapes at him. "No, Dean. No way." He backs away, holding his hands up in front of him.

"Sam," Dean says. "You want to know, you have to help. I am not doing this by myself."

Several arguments present themselves to Sam and then promptly make a rushed exit when they encounter logic. Like, for example, explaining to the doctor that Dean needs a pregnancy test because he only recently got turned into a girl, and has never had a period, but he should have had one already, since it's been more than a month since he was a boy.

Finally, he has an idea. A crazy idea, granted, but a better one than holding the sticks while Dean _pees on them_. He leaves Dean in the bathroom, staring at the boxes lined up on the counter. Ignoring Dean's indignant "Hey! Get your ass back here!" he heads into the kitchen, and rummages through the cupboards until he finds what he's looking for.

When he comes back into the bathroom, Dean is sitting on the edge of the bathtub, holding one of the pregnancy tests between two fingers, staring at it with unadulterated disgust. He looks up at Sam, and if looks could kill… well, Sam's glad he's the one with the funky brain powers. He holds up the beer cup he found and grins. Dean glares at him with narrowed eyes and then kicks him out of the bathroom while he takes care of business.

Fifteen minutes later, they're looking at seven blue stripes, nine pink crosses, six dots of various shapes and sizes, and one blank test. Sam resists the urge to hold that one above his head and triumphantly claim it as the correct one. Faced with overwhelming evidence to the contrary, it's pointless to even try.

Dean looks from the tests to him, back to the tests, and then back to him.

"Oh my god, Sammy. You knocked me up."


End file.
